


Liminal Places

by MirrorMystic



Series: Where The Lines Overlap [9]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Akira's just a little bit in love with everybody okay, Bipolar Disorder, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 11:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13363836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: Akira's year in Tokyo was just supposed to be a temporary thing.For the longest time, he thought being loved- being happy- was only temporary, too.





	Liminal Places

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Where The Heart Is](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375115) by [yormgen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yormgen/pseuds/yormgen). 



> From Wikipedia: "Liminal places can range from borders and frontiers to no man's lands and disputed territories, to crossroads to perhaps airports or hotels, which people pass through but do not live in."
> 
> It's been awhile, everyone- so long, in fact, that I wrote the whole of _The Second Renaissance_ before properly capping this series off. But here it is, at last- the conclusion to _Where The Lines Overlap_.
> 
> Thank you all for staying with me so far. I hope you all enjoy the read. ^^

~*~  
  
When Akira was a child, he didn’t consider himself a rebel.  
  
Quite the opposite, really. He was a model child. He did everything he was supposed to do. He did his homework; he did his chores; he never went out after school, and he never stayed up too late. He was everything he thought his father wanted him to be- quiet, unassuming, out of the way.  
  
Too quiet, even. Quiet when it mattered the most- when he heard his father shouting downstairs, when the door slammed and the car squealed out of the driveway, when his mother saved her tears for when she thought he couldn’t hear.  
  
Some part of him, deep down, knew this wasn’t right. But the rest of him wanted to pretend.  
  
The hardest lessons Akira ever learned were the ones he learned at home. He learned how to read a room, how to sense trouble in the air. He learned to listen for the particular cadence of a footstep, for a particular note in his father’s voice. He learned to see the signs, in posture, in body language- the rigidity in his father’s shoulders when he washed dishes without a word, his mother’s slight but consistent flinch at the sound of someone at the door.  
  
On the quiet nights, he’d feel a restless energy humming beneath his skin, a wordless dread, knowing that at any moment, the quiet could be broken. And on the bad nights, he’d go upstairs, to his room. He’d close the door, and he’d feel nothing at all.  
  
On the bad nights, he’d be a good boy. He’d do his homework. He’d do his chores. He’d behave.  
  
Because maybe, if he behaved, it would turn out alright.  
  
~*~  
  
Akira spent years in that in-between, an ocean of numbness and meek, unassuming quiet, cut through with flashes of thrumming anxiety. Being quiet, being numb, those were things he could handle. But he had to do something with all that restless energy, and, in middle school, he found the answer.  
  
Every introvert has their sanctuary. For Akira, his was the parallel bars.  
  
Now, Akira had never been to a nightclub- he was only thirteen, after all- but he imagined that this is what it felt like, without the downsides of the noise or the crowds. Gymnastics class was his sanctuary- that window of serenity where he could let his mind go blank and lose himself in the motion, the kinetic heat.  
  
In this moment, feeling the rush of air against his skin, Akira felt whole- not numb, not overcome with anxiety, but well and truly alive.  
  
It doesn’t last. It never does- it ends with the thud of his feet against the mat, sticking the landing and opening his arms with a flourish. And though the adrenaline is still rushing through his system, and the exhilarating memory still fresh in his mind, the numbness, and the restlessness, both start creeping back.  
  
His mother is waiting for him in the stands. While the crowd cheers, she has her hands clasped, quiet, unassuming.  
  
“I’m proud of you,” she says, though her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “If your father was here, I’m sure he’d be proud, too.”  
  
~*~  
  
Winter. Akira is sixteen years old, and life has been quiet for almost three years.  
  
There was no formal divorce. His father just left- just walked out, like Akira at a party where he doesn’t know enough people and the music’s too loud.  
  
Despite her best efforts, Akira’s mother loses the house. They wind up moving to a hole-in-the-wall apartment complex in the suburbs, away from expensive mortgages and painful memories. It’s a tiny place, cramped, drafty. The walls are too thin to keep out the cold, or for Akira to pretend he can’t hear her crying.  
  
On their first night, eating takeout while surrounded by cardboard boxes, she tries to tell Akira that this is only temporary- that soon, she’ll get a better job, and they’ll have a proper roof over their heads. Akira nods and picks at his food, saying nothing, feeling nothing.  
  
Akira loves her. But he also hates her. He hates the shadow of herself she’s become; hates that she’s too exhausted to even talk to him anymore; hates how she’ll just sit alone at the dining table and stare at the wall, lost in herself.  
  
He loves her, but it hurts to see her. He wonders if this is what it’s like to know someone who’s terminally ill- to watch them fight a losing battle, a death by inches over the course of years.  
  
Despite everything, Akira still doesn’t act out. He does his homework. He does his chores. He doesn’t go out after school, or stay up too late. He stays quiet. Out of the way. He stays numb, and he survives, pushing that restlessness, that anxiety, somewhere deep down.  
  
Until one fateful night, on his way back home, when he hears a woman struggling and a man’s voice raised in anger, and all that restless energy comes rushing to the surface.  
  
He doesn’t think. He lets his mind go blank and gives in to the motion, just like in gymnastics. For a brief moment, there is serenity. Justice. Until reality snaps back into place around him, and there’s an angry drunk snarling up at him from the sidewalk.  
  
The man glowers up at him, rubbing his jaw. He reaches up and gingerly touches the place where his head hit the curb. He stares at his bloody fingers, eyes wide with rage.  
  
“Damn brat!” He spits. “I’ll sue!”  
  
Akira turns to the woman. For a moment, he sees his mother, flinching away.  
  
The woman meets his eyes, caught between gratitude and fear.  
  
Akira takes a deep breath and sighs. The sky is cut through with flashing red, and Akira stares into the light, feeling nothing at all.  
  
~*~  
  
Life in the big city isn’t as different as Akira thought it would be.  
  
His first day in Yongen-jaya doesn’t exactly start on the best foot. His guardian for the time being, Sojiro, is surlier than he would have expected. But, strangely, Akira finds Sojiro’s demeanor refreshing. Gruff as it is, there’s at least an honesty to it, one that Akira much prefers over forced smiles and tense silence at the dinner table, waiting for the pin to drop.  
  
Akira spends his first day in Tokyo cleaning up the attic at Cafe Leblanc- what’s going to become his new room. In terms of space, it’s already roomier than the apartment he shares with his mother. Unfortunately, much of that space is filled with metal shelves and spare bags of coffee beans for the cafe below.  
  
Akira dusts, and mops, and lets his mind go blank. At the end of all his impromptu spring cleaning, he flops back onto the bed in the corner and stares up at the ceiling.  
  
This isn’t home. Leblanc isn’t home, any more than his mother’s apartment was home. It was just a temporary thing, a place in passing. A threshold. A crossroads.  
  
Akira heaves a sigh, and watches as his breath sends a flurry of dust motes dancing in the air above him. His phone buzzes in his pocket. New text.  
  
**_Mom_ ** _: Did you get to Tokyo alright?_  
  
Akira purses his lips, and types.  
  
**_Akira_ ** _: I made it._  
  
He feels like he should type more, but he doesn’t know what else to say. This is how all their conversations go, in recent years. Short. Clipped. Almost always through text.  
  
Akira sets his phone aside. He lies awake and stares at the ceiling, caught, as ever, between restless and numb- his limbs heavy with melancholy, while his heart, and his head, go buzzing with uncertainty.

~*~  
  
_Give me attention_ _  
_ _I need it now_ _  
_ _Too much distance_ _  
_ _To measure it out, out loud…_  
  
~*~

Akira’s first days at Shujin Academy don’t exactly go off without a hitch, either. After a lifetime of keeping his head down and not making waves, one punch is enough for his reputation to precede him. His homeroom teacher, especially, doesn’t look at all thrilled to have him in her class.  
  
Akira pointedly writes ‘Akira Kurusu’ on the board in chalk, before Ms. Kawakami can introduce him to the class. She glances up from her attendance sheet, curious, saying nothing.  
  
There’s so much to read in her tired eyes. Her posture, her expression, are achingly familiar. She’s exhausted; clearly working overtime. He wonders if it’s because she’s supporting a kid of her own, or if a deadbeat husband walked out on her, too.  
  
Time passes. Life goes on, even when you don’t want to, even when, apparently, the whole damn school doesn’t want you, either. Akira drifts, ghostlike, through each school day, immersing himself in that old, familiar numbness. Aside from a handful of times he’s called on to answer questions, he scarcely remembers anything about his school days. Honestly, a lot of his time in Tokyo just blurs together into one big depressive fog.  
  
That is, except for the things that Akira can’t explain. The business with the Metaverse, magic, monsters, other worlds. That, and the fact that he suddenly has friends.  
  
“Why ‘Kurusu’?” Ann asks, one day, when she, Akira and Ryuji are all lounging about on the school roof.  
  
The roof is, supposedly, off limits to students. By hanging out here, and not going home right after school, Akira is already breaking new ground.  
  
“What?” he blinks, distracted.  
  
“I said, why ‘Kurusu’?” Ann asks, her sky-blue eyes glinting with curiosity. “That’s not what it says on the class roster.”  
  
“It’s my mother’s name,” Akira says, matter-of-fact. “It was the one worth keeping.”  
  
“What about your dad?” Ryuji wonders.  
  
“The only good thing my dad ever gave me was my hair,” Akira shrugs.  
  
Ryuji grins, and lifts his hand. Akira can’t help but flinch- but then Ryuji ruffles his hair, and his hair sticks up, and all three of them are laughing, and Akira can’t quite believe it. For the first time in what feels like years, Akira laughs, loud and free.  
  
Some wordless, wary voice inside him wonders just how long it can last.    
  
On the way home from school, Ryuji and Ann usher Akira onto a packed subway train, squeezing in right before the doors slide shut. Akira winds up awkwardly wedged between them, uncomfortably aware of Ryuji’s abs in front of him, and Ann’s chest pressing into his back. Ryuji and Ann share a knowing glance and hurriedly turn Akira’s attention elsewhere- to the subway map posted above them, pointing out the route to Yongen-jaya amongst a dozen twisting lines.  
  
This isn’t home. This is just a temporary thing. But if Akira was going to be here for a whole year, he would have to learn the train route eventually.  
  
He watches Ann trace the route from Shujin back to Yongen-jaya with a perfectly manicured nail. She gets halfway there before Ryuji chimes in and she gets distracted. They spend the next minute pointing out all their favorite places- the amusement park. The crepe stand. This place has the best clothes. This place has the best ramen.  
  
They chatter, excited, about anything from the best games to the best karaoke, with a light and warmth in their eyes that pricks Akira’s heart like a fishhook.  
  
Akira smiles, musing. They make an odd trio. A boxed set of Shujin’s finest misfits. Ryuji, the mama’s boy with his father’s temper. Ann, the girl seeking the spotlight she deserves, despite the slut-shamers and catcallers. Both of them know a thing or two about deadbeat dads and distant mothers. And yet here they are, standing tall, grinning in the face of rumors and adversity with all the pride and audacity they can muster. Two so-called delinquents eagerly helping the new kid find his way home.  
  
The train hits a bump in the track with a bang. Akira cries out in alarm, stumbling forward- until he finds himself braced against Ryuji’s chest, with Ann’s steady hands on his shoulders.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Ann says.  
  
Ryuji nods. “We have you.”  
  
And they do. They really do.

~*~  
  
_Tracing patterns_ _  
_ _Across a personal map_ _  
_ _And making pictures_ _  
_ _Where the lines overlap_ _  
_ _  
_ _Where the lines overlap…_ _  
_  
~*~

Springtime. Akira leans on the balcony rail at the Shibuya overpass, the newest member of his inner circle standing nearby. And while Yusuke is busy watching the crowd bustling by below, Akira is watching him, quietly wondering about their recent success.  
  
Two. Two hearts changed, hopefully for the better. The Phantom Thieves have proven that if they could do it once, they can do it again- but there’s still that nagging voice inside Akira’s heart, curbing his ambitions, humbling his hopes.  
  
Two is not yet a pattern. Two could just be coincidence.  
  
Akira frowns, pensive, wondering why that whispering doubt always has to suck the joy out of everything. He looks back at Yusuke, feeling… not quite numb, but observant, watchful.  
  
Yusuke watches the crowd go past beneath the translucent hall of their overpass, thoughtfully tapping a pencil against his chin. Akira watches, intrigued, as Yusuke picks out people from the crowd and sketches them with deft fingers, never once moving his gaze from the street below. The sketches are quick, but not rushed- capturing striking silhouettes in the brief moments before his subjects stray out of sight.  
  
“What are you doing?” Akira wonders.  
  
“You never know where inspiration will strike,” Yusuke says, still gazing intently at the street below. “This is an exercise in capturing expression. Movement. Even a brief impression can make for an evocative image.”  
  
Akira nods, but says nothing, savoring the comfortable quiet.  
  
Spending time with Yusuke is strangely familiar. Quiet, contemplative, with the occasional excited, passionate outburst. Yusuke is anything but subtle when inspiration strikes. Like Akira himself, spending most of his time sleepwalking through the fog, save for the occasional burst of bright, garish sunlight. Weeks of feeling numb, interspersed with days of feeling overwhelmingly alive.  
  
Akira sighs. It isn’t quite the same. And yet… and yet…  
  
“You picked a great day to do it,” Akira says, before the silence can drag him down and trap him in his own thoughts.  
  
“How so?” Yusuke asks.  
  
Akira nods to the street below, dusted with cherry blossom petals. Sakura drift on every breeze, settling in hair, on clothes, filling the air with the brilliant, vivid pink of springtime.  
  
“It’s gorgeous out,” Akira says. “It’s a shame it won’t last.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Yusuke says. “But a thing is not beautiful because it lasts.”  
  
Yusuke glances down at his sketchbook and carefully tears out a page. He meets Akira’s eyes, and hands it over.  
  
It’s a sketch of Akira himself, leaning on the balcony rail, a distant expression in his eyes. He looks pensive. Lost.  
  
“...It looks great,” Akira manages, frowning. “...although…”  
  
“You’re not smiling,” Yusuke says, gazing out over the street. “But that’s alright. Don’t force it. I don’t much care for posed pictures.”  
  
Akira nods, and looks back over the street. He watches the world go by, and lets his mind go blank- until there’s nothing but falling sakura and the scratch of Yusuke’s pencil on the page.  
  
~*~  
  
The room is cold, and dark, and far too clean. Akira stands awkwardly in the corner of the room, his hands in his pockets, staring down at the linoleum floor.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, which is never a good way to start a conversation. “Ann got tied up, and she told me to go on ahead…”  
  
“It’s okay,” Shiho says from her hospital bed. She gestures towards the window. “Could you…?”  
  
Akira opens the curtains. Brilliant light floods into the room, and sakura drift by on the breeze. Shiho’s pale skin practically glows in the sunlight. Dressed all in white, her face framed by her long, jet-black hair… she looks like an angel. Or a ghost.  
  
“Sit down,” Shiho says, patting the chair at her bedside.  
  
Akira hesitates. “I… I don’t know if I should-”  
  
“Sit _down_ ,” Shiho insists, smiling. “Come on. It’s not like I’m made of glass.”  
  
Akira relents. Shiho gazes up at him and studies him for a long moment. When she looks away, she nods to herself, as if she’s figured it all out.  
  
“You’re just like Ryuji,” Shiho says.  
  
“Really?” Akira chuckles. “I don’t think Ryuji and I could be more different if we tried.”  
  
“No,” Shiho shakes her head. “The whole school talks about how scary you are, but really, you’re just a big softie. Just like him.”  
  
Akira fidgets under Shiho’s steady gaze. There’s a warmth in her eyes- a certain strength, a certain insight. It’s like she can see right through him- through years of being trapped in his own head, years of doubt, worry, of feeling too much, of feeling nothing at all.  
  
“Can-” Akira swallows. “Can I ask you-”  
  
“Why I did it?”  
  
“...Yeah,” Akira breathes. “Did you… did you really want to die?”  
  
Shiho clasps her hands in her lap, a shadow flickering over her eyes.  
  
“Honestly, I don’t think anybody who jumps off a roof really wants to die. I think they want an escape. They want an end to fear, to pain. I think… you want to go to sleep, and wake up to a world where you feel safe, and loved. A world where things make sense. A life with hope. It’s the feeling of… home.”  
  
Akira opens his mouth, as if to speak. Closes it again. He takes a deep breath, and sighs.  
  
“What if… you don’t know what that feels like?”  
  
Their eyes meet- warm brown and stormy gray. Akira’s breath catches in his throat- there’s something in Shiho’s chestnut eyes, some purity of conviction, that leaves him speechless.  
  
“You will,” Shiho says gently. “If not now, then someday. Besides… I always thought ‘home’ was something you take with you, not somewhere you go.”  
  
Akira nods. “Something… or someone?”  
  
Shiho smiles. “Or someone.”  
  
They spend awhile together, in peace and quiet. Shiho asks Akira to help her put some makeup on. She wants to look her best for when Ann arrives. She puts her hair up, adds a little blush, a little concealer, and she’s no longer a ghost. In the sunlight streaming through her window, she truly looks like an angel.  
  
Finally, Ann barges in, babbling panicked apologies for being late. Akira gets up and lets Ann take the seat at Shiho’s bedside, watching with growing fondness as they fuss over each other, Ann pulling Shiho’s hand into her lap and lacing their fingers together without a word. Akira lingers by the door, wanting to give them their space- but Shiho catches his eyes on the way out. There's a certain glimmer in those chestnut eyes.   
  
He smiles. Nods.  
  
And he understands.

~*~

 _No one is as lucky as us_ _  
_ _We’re not at the end, but_ _  
_ _We’ve already won_ _  
_ _No one is as lucky as us_ _  
_ _Is as lucky as us…_  
  
~*~

Summer, and Akira’s inner circle just keeps on growing.  
  
Futaba’s waiting for him on the curb outside Leblanc, hugging her knees to her chest. Akira has a popsicle he’s bought from the Triple Seven down the street- the kind with two sticks. He breaks it in half, and hands one to her.  
  
“Cheapskate,” Futaba teases, as he smooths her hair against her scalp.  
  
“Relax,” Akira says, lifting up a plastic bag. “I’ve got more.”  
  
Akira takes a minute to deposit his convenience store bounty in the freezer, before joining Futaba back out on the curb. As they sit there on Leblanc’s doorstep, basking in the sunlight of a lazy summer day, Akira finds himself thinking about home.  
  
Here, eating popsicles with his sort-of sister, waiting for the rest of the gang to arrive…  
  
This is just a temporary thing, Akira reminds himself. This isn’t home.  
  
But it’s close. Closer than a lot of places.  
  
“You know, a month ago I was still cooped up in my room,” Futaba says, apropos of nothing. “I always kept the curtains closed, never really looked outside. Never really enjoyed the weather.”  
  
“Probably not good for your eyes, staring at a screen all day,” Akira mutters.  
  
“Now look at me,” Futaba flashes him an impish grin. “I’m out of the house. I’m not very _far_ from the house, but still. I like my little go-to spot, here on the curb. It’s… I don’t know…”  
  
“‘Down to earth’?” Akira offers.  
  
Futaba rolls her eyes. “Shut up. I hate you.”  
  
The way she bonks her head into Akira’s shoulder says otherwise. Akira reaches up, fondly laying a hand in her hair.  
  
“I don’t know how you do it,” Futaba muses, making a face. “All this… _social_ stuff.”  
  
“Trust me, I’m hardly an expert,” Akira scoffs.  
  
“But you make it look so easy.”  
  
“I’m improvising,” Akira shrugs. “You know. Fake it ‘til you make it.”  
  
Futaba pouts up at him, something inscrutable in her vivid, violet eyes. “So this is fake?”  
  
The intensity in her stare makes Akira’s heart flutter in his chest. He realizes, with a start, that he doesn’t feel numb. He feels warm- warmer, perhaps, than he’s ever been.  
  
Futaba squeaks in indignation as Akira obligingly bonks his forehead against hers. She swats him away, playfully, before settling in against him, his arm across her shoulders.  
  
“No, bug,” Akira says softly, giving her a squeeze. “This is real.”

~*~  
  
_Call me over_ _  
_ _And show me how_ _  
_ _You got so far_ _  
_ _Never making a single sound…_ _  
_  
~*~

Fall. And when the leaves fall, everything falls.  
  
But even as the Metaverse keeps getting more and more harrowing, Akira has never felt more alive. He throws himself into the fray with all the grace of a cat, planting his heels on a Shadow’s shoulders and ripping the mask from its face. All around him, the team- his team- lay waste to the monsters with artful elegance and skill.  
  
It’s like gymnastics class all over again. His sanctuary, his outlet- a place where his mind can go blank and he surrenders himself to the kinetic heat. A place where all his restless energy and bottled up, manic drive can be unleashed without fear.  
  
“It’s exhilarating, isn’t it?” Makoto asks, one day in Mementos, as her fist obliterates a Shadow and it melts back into blood and tar. “It’s like… you’re a whole other person.”  
  
“Yeah,” Akira nods. A Shadow dissolves under his feet and he wrenches his dagger out of the floor, spinning it in his hand. He stares at the knife, at his blood-red glove. He flashes Makoto a dangerous smile. “What a rush. I could just about drown in it.”  
  
Makoto gives him a pointed look. She claps a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eyes.  
  
“Just make sure you remember to come up for air,” Makoto chides.  
  
Akira nods, biting back the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin. He watches Makoto stride forward, haloed in Mementos’ otherworldly light, her scarf billowing in the unearthly breeze. She gazes into the shadowed depths, a pensive look in her vivid red eyes.  
  
“This place… this feeling…” Makoto begins, tugging at her gloves. “It’s… nice, finally knowing where I belong.”  
  
“You mean here, in the fight?”  
  
Makoto turns, catching his eyes.  
  
“No,” she says. “With you.”  
  
She must see how those words stop Akira in his tracks, because she laughs and punches him in the arm.  
  
“With the _team_ ,” she clarifies.  
  
“...Right.” Akira looks away, sheepish.  
  
“Come on,” Makoto says, smirking. “Let’s get to work…”  
  
~*~  
  
Every introvert has their sanctuary. Haru’s was her garden on Shujin’s roof.  
  
Fall, and while the days grow shorter, and their work as the Phantom Thieves ever more dangerous, Haru makes do with the dimming light. She paces her rows of planters, snipping weeds with a pair of gardening shears, cooing to her tomatoes like one might a child.  
  
At a table nearby, Makoto sits with a sheaf of student council paperwork, here to enjoy the weather- and to watch over Haru in the wake of her father’s passing. Akira waits here for similar reasons, not too close, but not too far away. Quietly, he muses about this rooftop being the place where it all began- when it was just him, Ann, and Ryuji. He wonders about how he’s changed over the past year. He wonders when he started putting roots down. He wonders, as always, how long it will last.  
  
“I’ve got you all figured out,” Haru announces, brightly- so brightly that Akira wonders how much of it is just a mask for her grief.  
  
“Oh yes?” Akira asks, humoring her.  
  
“You're a tomato!”  
  
“A tomato.”  
  
“We’re all tomatoes!” Haru chirps. “Here, look.”  
  
Haru holds out a gloved hand, bearing a tomato seed. She tosses it into the air, and the breeze whips it away.  
  
“Flung out into the world without any warning, not knowing where it will take root, but somehow, it finds a way…” Haru begins. A shadow passes over her eyes. She glances back towards her planters. “...and on the other hand, someone can plant the seed in the best soil, water it, weed it, tend to it every day… and it still won’t sprout if it doesn’t get enough sun.”  
  
Haru grows quiet. She closes her eyes and feels the breeze through her hair. She breathes deep of the crisp autumn air, and sighs.  
  
“Are you… getting enough sun?” Akira asks.  
  
Haru giggles. She pulls off her gardening gloves, reaches up and wipes her eyes.  
  
“...Yes, actually,” she says. “Despite everything… I feel like… my life has never been brighter.”  
  
She turns, haloed by the setting sun. Akira gazes, enraptured, as Haru smiles through her tears, the light settling in her hair and shining like a crown.

~*~  
  
_I’m not used to it_ _  
_ _But I can learn_ _  
_ _There’s nothing to it_ _  
_ _I’ve never been happier_ _  
_ _  
_ _I’ve never been happier..._ _  
_  
~*~

Time flies. Akira’s sophomore year in Tokyo passes far, far too quickly. Tokyo was supposed to be a temporary thing; a halfway place, a place in passing. But it became so much more.  
  
Akira returns to his mother’s apartment as a shadow of himself. Their reunion is muted, awkward, until his mother asks if he made any friends, and Akira’s face just lights up. It's like he's a whole new person, full to bursting with light and fond memories. Akira can go on for hours about his time in Tokyo. And he does, every chance he gets. Everything around him is a reminder of home- every bowl of ramen, every fashion magazine, every scratch of pencil on paper. And as his mother listens, awed by these stories of the people who captured her son’s heart, she’s torn. Her apartment isn’t his home, anymore. Maybe it never was.  
  
Out in the country, the duality of Akira’s mood- numbness and restlessness- takes on new meaning. The quiet of his hometown is stifling, and he finds himself marking calendars, counting the days to every day off, every chance to see his friends again.  
  
As Akira drifts, ghostlike, through his senior year, the Phantom Chat becomes his anchor; his lifeline. Through the group chat, he watches lives unfold- and love bloom. He was the one who brought the Phantom Thieves together- but in his absence, they turn to each other, and the web of their relationships grows more tangled every day.  
  
His phone is his window to his real life back in Tokyo. In hallways, in convenience stores, on sidewalks, in train stations- in these in-between places, he pulls out his phone and reminds himself of what he’s working for. In these liminal places, Akira is home.  
  
When Akira finally announces that he’ll be returning to Tokyo for good, he practically sets the group chat on fire. Everyone is excited. But nobody is surprised.  
  
He returns to find his room at Leblanc more or less how he’d left it- save for the computer in the corner that Futaba had built for him as a homecoming present, and to feel closer to him during his year away. Sojiro had kept the place spotless. It was like he knew- Akira being gone would only be a temporary thing.  
  
The Thieves had been busy while he was away, juggling work, school, and get-togethers that Ryuji would always stubbornly insist weren’t dates. The Thieves were closer than ever, their lives a confusing maze of affection, intimacy, and blurring boundaries.  
  
Makoto, ever practical, suggests that they make a chart.  
  
The rest, as they say, is history...

~*~  
  
_No one is as lucky as us_ _  
_ _We’re not at the end, but_ _  
_ _We’ve already won_ _  
_ _No one is as lucky as us_ _  
_ _Is as lucky as us…_ _  
_  
~*~

“...and there you have it,” Akira says, leaning back on the exam room couch. “What can I say? It’s been a busy couple of years.”  
  
“That’s a hell of a story,” Tae nods, clipboard in hand. “Can’t say I’m not a little jealous- I wish _I_ had a group of friends as tight as yours.”  
  
“Really?” Akira looked dubious. “ _You_ have trouble meeting people?”  
  
“Well, there is this _one_ lady I have my eyes on…”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Oh, now who are we here for? Me or you? Hm?” Tae smiles, deflecting. “Now, you’ve told me how it felt, back in middle school. How are you feeling now?”  
  
Akira shrugs. “Can’t complain. The lows aren’t too low. The highs aren’t too high. The lows, I just kinda feel lazy, sluggish, don’t really want to leave the house. The highs, I want to do everything at once, but I don’t think I’m as reckless or spontaneous as I used to be when it got really bad.”  
  
Tae nods, scribbling notes on her clipboard. “They say these things run in the family. But, you know, for someone who’s gone undiagnosed for so long, you seem to be doing pretty well for yourself. After a story like that, I’m almost embarrassed to say I’m, well, not that kind of doctor.”  
  
Tae slides back in her rolling chair, flicking a business card off her desk and handing it over.  
  
“Here. A friend of mine, Dr. Yanagiya. She’s got a practice here in Tokyo. She’ll set you up with something a little more reliable than self-medicating with friends.”  
  
Akira hesitates. “...I don’t know…”  
  
“Listen,” Tae says, leaning in. She taps two fingers against the side of her head. “You’ve got some good friends. That counts for a lot. But if you’re running on fumes up here, it doesn’t matter how good your friends are. You still gotta fill up. Understand?”  
  
Akira rolls his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”  
  
“Don’t give me that attitude, kiddo,” Tae smirks. “Do me a favor and give Otome a call, would you? New year, new you, all that stuff.”  
  
Akira nods, pulling his bag onto his shoulder. “I will. Thanks, doc.”  
  
“Hey!” Tae calls after him on his way out the door. “Do me another favor and call your mom, too!”  
  
~*~  
  
**_Akira_ ** _: I’ll come over and help you pack._ _  
_ **_Mom_ ** _: Oh, Akira, you don’t need to put yourself out. I’ll be fine._ _  
_ **_Akira_ ** _: Mom, you don’t need to hire movers when you have me. I’ll even bring my friends. I can’t wait for you to meet them._ _  
_ **_Mom_ ** _: That does sound nice…_ _  
_ **_Mom_ ** _: What are you doing tonight?_ _  
_ **_Akira_ ** _: House party. >:D _ _  
_ **_Mom_ ** _: Try not to burn the house down! :)_ _  
_ _  
_ “No promises,” Akira grins, pocketing his phone.  
  
He steps out from the alcove of Takemi Medical Clinic, onto the narrow streets of Yongen-jaya and the brisk winter air. He turns the corner and grunts as a redheaded comet collides with his chest. He smiles, laying a hand in Futaba’s hair.  
  
“Hey, bug,” he says with the utmost fondness.  
  
“Hey, shitlord,” Futaba says sweetly, reaching up and thumping him on the head. “How long does a stupid doctor’s appointment take, huh? Come on! Everyone’s waiting!”  
  
Futaba turns and pulls him down the street. Sojiro’s waiting at the door to Leblanc, pointedly flipping the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. He turns to his kids, and smiles.  
  
“Hey, Dad,” Akira says, nodding respectfully. “Got any big plans for tonight?”  
  
“Mahjong,” Sojiro smirks. He tosses Akira the keys to the cafe. “Try not to burn the house down, huh?”  
  
“No promises,” Akira grins.  
  
Sojiro just smiles and shakes his head.  
  
The bells above the door jingle as Akira and Futaba step inside, Akira carefully locking the door behind them. Futaba takes his hand and all-but drags him up the stairs.

~*~

 _Now, I’ve got a feeling_ _  
_ _If I sang this loud enough, you would sing it back to me_ _  
_ _I’ve got a feeling_ _  
_ _If I sang this loud enough, you would sing it back to me_ _  
_ _I’ve got a feeling, I’ve got a feeling_ _  
_ _You would sing it back to me_ _  
_ _You would sing it back to me…_

~*~

The attic at Leblanc, once so empty, so lonely, is filled with a sea of faces. The former Phantom Thieves, and more- Mishima, Kana, Hifumi.  
  
Ryuji and Ann burst through the crowd and throw their arms over Akira’s shoulders, playfully bickering over which of them saw him first. Across the room, Shiho meets his eyes. Dressed all in white, more than ever, she looks like an angel.  
  
“You made it,” she says, her gentle voice somehow carrying over the sea of excitement roiling around her.  
  
“Yeah,” Akira nods, his chest aching with affection. “I made it.”  
  
The hours fly by, the gaggle of young adults sprawled out across couches, throw pillows, and the spare futons rolled across the floor as a makeshift carpet. There are board games, video games, party games, plastic bags of convenience store snacks and paper plates of Sojiro’s curry. Futaba plants herself in front of the TV with a stack of fighting games and calls out for all challengers. Yusuke spends the night sketching the faces of her opponents, from smug and boastful, to outraged in defeat.  
  
There’s a good-natured debate about what movies to watch, and everyone’s brought their favorites. They eventually decide on a gangster movie- a bloody thriller full of gunfights, fistfights, and muscular, tattoed gangsters waxing poetic on justice and what it means to be a man. A slightly tipsy Makoto winds up passionately reciting the entire monologue leading up to the final battle, fists clenched, fire in her eyes, to Haru and Hifumi’s quiet delight.  
  
Akira watches his inner circle orbit around one another- sees the held gazes, the lingering smiles, the stolen kisses. He watches this group, so lonely when he first found them- when they found _him_ \- become so much more. His heart aches with affection, as he watches the maze of relationships unfold around him.  
  
Outcasts. Misfits. So-called delinquents. And here they were, throwing a house party on New Year’s Eve like any other kids their age.  
  
They made it, when no one thought they could.  
  
Maybe that makes Akira a rebel, after all. Maybe this warmth in his chest is his rebellion.  
  
As midnight approaches, Kana earnestly asks for everyone to close their eyes, and make a wish.  
  
Akira feels eyes upon him, watching from a distant, blue-hued, halfway place. He takes a deep breath, and wishes that this circle of his will last for as long as it can.  
  
The clock strikes twelve. The gathered crowd cheers.  
  
Akira opens his eyes to a sea of smiling faces, and the glint of a shining white butterfly perched at his window.  
  
He’s home.

~*~

 _No one is as lucky as us  
_ _We’re not at the end, but  
_ _We’ve already won  
  
_ _No, no, no one is as lucky as us  
_ _Is as lucky as us  
_ _Is as lucky as us..._ _  
_  
~*~

**Author's Note:**

> ~*~
> 
> Someday, long after the rise and fall of the Phantom Thieves, Akira comes home. The bells above the door at Leblanc jingle as he comes inside. 
> 
> He makes a beeline for the shock of red hair poking out of the corner booth. He places his hand out, palm down, just above Futaba’s head. She leans into the touch, chittering like a bug. 
> 
> Ryuji’s behind the counter, arms crossed and smirking, his Leblanc apron tight on his muscled frame. He still works out, even though he rarely needs to lift anything heavier than hot water over a paper cone. 
> 
> Sojiro’s sitting at the counter. He wears no apron, and there’s a newspaper in his hands- but he’s set the crossword aside. He’s in rapt conversation with the woman perched on a stool beside him. As she turns to the door, her glasses glint in the light. She, like the cafe, is warm, and bright, and alive. 
> 
> Akira pauses in the door, filled with such overwhelming fondness his heart catches in his throat. 
> 
> “ _T… Tadaima_ ,” he says. 
> 
> Minami Kurusu smiles- a shy, subtle thing. 
> 
> “ _Okaeri_.”
> 
> ~*~


End file.
